


on the right side of rock bottom

by darthrevaan (Burning_Nightingale)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mission Fic, Post-Season/Series 12, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-26 23:15:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9928307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Nightingale/pseuds/darthrevaan
Summary: you've been looking for more, i've been over my headyou've been filling up spaces, i'm working too muchGrif has a new boyfriend. Simmons denies that this bothers him.Because it doesn't. At all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first long RvB fic! This has been a blast to write and is within a hair's breadth of being completely finished, so posting a new chapter each Saturday should be possible. I hope you guys enjoy it!
> 
> [ My art has been done by the wonderful pitchscribbles!! Go give them some love :D ](http://pitchscribbles.tumblr.com/post/157725819811/timezone-differences-be-damned-these-are-a-bit)

There's a certain voice people use when they're gossiping.

Simmons is uncomfortably familiar with this voice. The low, hushed tone, the not-quite-whispering, the way heads lean in together unconsciously as secrets are shared.  _He said_ what _? She saw_ who _?_ Stupid, childish, school playground bullshit.

The thing is, those playground tactics can still sting, and children learn early how to make them hurt as much as possible.

But he's an adult now. A real adult who has a real adult job, real adult responsibilities, who has seen and done things that are so far beyond pernicious childish whispering.

Besides, he doesn't even know that it's him they're gossiping about. An entire childhood of being followed by whispers and choked sniggers has given him an acute sense of when someone is talking about him, even when the speakers are taking care not to make it obvious, so he can say with about ninety per cent certainty that the two privates behind him in the hangar bay are exchanging rumours about someone else.  

It's still off-putting, though. Even if he couldn't hear the hiss of their whispers, just the knowledge of what they're doing provokes an uncontrollable anxious reaction in him. They're surely not talking about him - really, even kids with social skills stunted by constant warfare are savvy enough to work out that gossiping about a commanding officer while standing about five metres behind him is idiotic - but it's hard to convince his illogical subconscious of this simple, obvious fact. So he's on edge, and nervous, trying to focus on the weapons inventory instead of the voices behind him, not to mention the ongoing problem of all the _stupid_ feelings that he hasn't been able to stamp on and file away into a locked box in his headspace and all started because of Grif and his _stupid_ -

"Captain Simmons?"

Simmons just about manages not to leap ten feet into the air, but it's a close thing.

Jensen is standing next to him, a tilt to her helmet that means she is either confused or concerned –  it's hard to tell which. Maybe it's both. He opens his mouth, remembers himself, closes it and clears his throat, and manages to get three words out in a relatively collected tone without a hint of a squeak. "Yes, Lieutenant Jensen?"

"There's someone out there from Medical with an ammo request, I thought I should come run it by you since we’re on such tight rationing at the moment."

A surge of irritation rushes through Simmons like a lightning spike, hot and vicious enough that his next words come out of his mouth without even a thought spared for nerves, tone or appropriate language. "Is it that fucking Fed guy again?"

Jensen's slight flinch backwards tells him all he needs to know about how he sounded, and he winces inside his helmet. "Er...it's a Fed guy? With glasses, and white armour with-"

"Purple highlights," Simmons finishes for her, gritting his teeth.

God. If he never has to look at Ed the Fed again, it'll be too soon. Just what the hell is that guy's problem, anyhow? He sees Grif every day now, with their 'thing' going on, it's not like he needs to come to the armoury just to have an excuse to ask after him. Simmons  _thought_ he'd made it perfectly clear how he felt about the situation (passive aggressively, yes, but Ed should have taken the hint by now).

"Do you...not like him, sir?" Jensen asks.

 _No_ , Simmons thinks vehemently, but he can't say that. He knows how gossip works; one person says something to another in a rash moment, and no one can ever keep a secret. If he tells Jensen he hates Grif's new boyfriend it  _will_ get back to him somehow, despite how unlikely it is that she'd ever maliciously tell anyone. A secret untold is a secret kept.

"He's, um, fine," Simmons says, then clears his throat again.  _It's just Jensen, it's fine, she likes you..._  "Just has a, er, habit of bringing in, y'know, requisitions for Medical when we’re already strapped for supplies."

Jensen eyes the paper in her hand. "Aren’t the medics supposed to be armed?"

"Yes, I mean, they are, of course. You wouldn’t have thought they needed it while they’re wandering around the hospital, though."

“I guess…” Jensen sounds hesitant, and scans the papers in her hands. “These are for medic going out in the field, though.”

"Well, that’s different." Simmons clears his throat again. "Anyway, none of that is really Ed’s fault, it’s a higher command thing. He's actually been helping out. He's, er, y'know..." Simmons tries not to grit his teeth, so his next words will come out somewhat sincere. "He's a nice guy."

Jensen's helmet turns from the papers back to his face and holds there, staring at him. Often it's easy to tell what expression someone is making under their helmet just from their body language, but right now he can't tell what look Jensen is giving him at all. Confusion? Disbelief? Godammit, did he just fuck up and totally broadcast how much he hates Ed the Fed to his lieutenant?

"Alright, sir," Jensen says after a couple of awkward moments of silence. "Shall I approve the order?"

"Yeah, thanks, Jensen," Simmons says. "I'll, er, I'll be done with this in a few minutes. Then you can go back to the car pool."

"Okay, sir." Jensen walks off, and Simmons breathes a sigh of relief. Talking to Jensen has gotten a lot easier, but he's on edge through every conversation, just waiting for his voice to crack or for his mouth to run away with him and let something stupid come out. It's irrational,  _Jesus_ he knows it's irrational and stupid, but he's never been able to help it.

His all-girl squad  _is_ helping, slowly, just like Kimball said they would. That doesn't mean it's an entirely comfortable process, though.

At least, having seen Jensen coming, the two privates behind him cleared out and he can focus on his inventory in peace.

He just hopes they weren't talking about her.

/

Later, after relieving Jensen of the front desk and spending another five hours arguing variously with Lopez, Donut and the score of soldiers who walk through the door, Simmons' shift is over. He leads the way to the mess hall, half-listening to Donut's animated chatter and giving monotone, often single word replies.

The mess hall has always reminded Simmons of the lunch hall at school; a long high-ceilinged room filled with tables and chairs and noise, one wall dedicated to a long serving hatch where lacklustre food is doled out without enthusiasm. The only upside is that these days he usually isn't short of people to sit with.

They  _used_ to sit together as a team. Now, however, Sarge has taken to joining Doctor Grey in her office for meals most days, and in the last week Grif has consistently bailed on them to sit with Ed the Fed whenever he's around. Combined with their constantly changing schedules, it sometimes means only two or three of them are in the mess hall together at any one time.

Like tonight, it seems. Simmons can't see any of the other Reds and Blues as he lines up with his tray at the server's hatch; looks like the table tonight will be just him and Donut. Unless Donut decides to invite some of his seemingly innumerable friends to sit with them, in which case Simmons will be eating in slightly uncomfortable silence while everyone else around him talks. Donut's new friends are all...kind of weird.

But that doesn't happen; Donut sits down quietly across from him at a deserted table and they start eating, nothing weird, nothing strange. It is, Simmons reflects, kind of a comfortable silence.

Until Donut breaks it, because Donut is Donut and really, what else did Simmons expect?

"You've been looking really sad lately, Simmons," Donut says. He sounds sad himself, like he's about to start crying on Simmons' behalf.

Simmons coughs slightly and focuses on his plate. "I'm fine."

Donut sighs heavily. "Simmons, have you got a case of jealous best friend?"

"What?" Simmons yelps, his head shooting up to stare at Donut.

"Hey, no judgement, it's tough when your best friend gets a new boyfriend! You're not the only one in the picture anymore." Donut nods sagely. "It's okay, though. Grif will get over this puppy love stage eventually, and then he'll come back and you'll be inseparable again. Maybe you'll even start to like Ed!"

"Who says I don't like Ed?!" Simmons splutters.

Donut raises one eyebrow and gives him a  _look_ , an expression that says 'seriously?' so clearly that Simmons face heats and he drops his gaze back to his plate. "Ed is  _fine_ ," he insists, pushing limp vegetables around with his fork.

Donut sighs heavily. "Alright, stay in denial. I'm only trying to help."

"Yeah," Simmons says quietly, "I know."

There's a moment of silence before Donut says, "Oh, Simmons, you really are upset."

"I'm just-" Simmons feels his throat close up. He can't talk about this, he can never just  _talk_ about anything. Donut is probably the least likely person who would laugh at him - maybe tied with Kimball - but that doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is the choking fear of telling anyone anything, of letting anyone get a glimpse of something that might be a weak spot. He hates it, but it's just how he is. Can't talk, can't open up, can't emotionally engage. That's just him.

And if he can't admit these feelings to himself, what chance has he got of talking about them with Donut?

"I want to like Ed," he says, because that is true. He doesn't  _want_ to be the bitter, jealous best friend; it makes him look like a complete loser.

"You  _will_ like Ed," Donut says confidently. "Grif likes him; there must be  _something_ good about him!"

 _He isn't the problem; I am_ , Simmons thinks, but his nerve fails him when he tries to say the words aloud. "He's a nice guy."

That look Jensen was giving him earlier was probably exasperated disbelief, because the tilt of Donut's head exactly mirrors hers. "I'm serious!" Simmons exclaims, before Donut can say anything. "He's a good guy! I- I just..."

Donut holds up his hands. "I know, okay? I know. I've been there." Before Simmons can ask, Donut ploughs on. "We need to get you two to gel. Do you hang out with them?"

"Together? No."

"Never?"

"Not once."

Donut sighs. "You're hopeless.  _Both_ of you. So, you guys need to hang out all together."

Simmons can honestly think of nothing worse than hanging out with Grif and Ed the Fed  _alone_. "What, you want me to third wheel one of their dates?" he asks.

"No, obviously not. Just let me think a minute, Simmons." They fall silent, Simmons forcing limp and slightly cold vegetables down his throat with defeated fatalism. Knowing Donut, he'll end up doing something he hates, and it'll be in the company of Ed the Fed - the worst outcome possible, basically.

After a minute or two Donut snaps his fingers. "I've got it. Simmons, we need to throw a party."

Exactly as expected; the worst possible idea. " _No_ , Donut, no  _way_ ," Simmons yelps, because if he protests early enough and loud enough Donut might still be swayed from this idea.

Probably not, but maybe.

"Simmons, it'll be fun! There'll be lots of other people around so it won't be awkward!"

It will be awkward as  _hell_ , Simmons can just feel it. "No, Donut, I don't want-"

"Uggghh,  _Simmons_ ," Donut groans, "I'll bet these people haven't had a party in years! It'll be good for morale!"

Before Simmons can protest more, a familiar voice asks, "Party?"

Simmons winces as Caboose drops down next to Donut with enough force to make the cutlery rattle. Donut turns to him, grinning, and Simmons knows this battle is lost. "Yeah, Caboose, see I was thinking we'd have it in someone's room..."

By the time they've finished dinner, Caboose and Donut have it all planned out. The party will be held in their rooms and the corridor the Reds and Blues share - which Carolina and Wash might have something to say about, but Caboose and Donut united form a surprisingly formidable team - three nights from now. Tucker and Grif will bring the booze (which neither have agreed to, but since they always source the alcohol, this part of the plan is automatically assumed) and Donut will invite all the guests (of which there will be many). Caboose will score them some food, because the cooks like him best. Simmons' only job, Donut assures him, is to turn up and make nice with Ed the Fed.

"It will be a happy, low stress environment," Donut says, which only serves to prove how little he understands Simmons' mental state.

Well. At least he has three days to prepare.

/

Wash corners him the next morning in the back of the armoury. "So I hear Donut is planning a party," he says, deadpan and almost monotone, typical Wash-the-Freelancer style.

Simmons shrugs. "Yeah."

"In our corridor."

"Yep."

Wash sighs long-sufferingly. "You're not going to give me anything, are you."

"You're not asking me anything you don't already know, Wash." Simmons gives him a look. "You're just expressing your disapproval."

Wash purses his lips, and Simmons can't help but feel a little smug.

"So you didn't try to stop Donut at all," Wash asks, a little exasperated now.

"No stopping an avalanche once it's started," Simmons says. Wash sighs heavily, and Simmons attempts his best impression of Donut as he says, "Don't worry Wash, it'll be a fun and stress-free environment!"

The corners of Wash's lips twitch, at least. “So, you’re saying I shouldn’t even try to stop him?”

“You can _try_.”

Wash looks incredulous. “What, exactly, do you think Donut’s going to do to stop me?”

Simmons pauses for a moment, wondering how to explain to Wash the enigma of Donut. “You know that phrase, ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover’?” Wash nods. “It may as well have been written about Donut.”

Wash frowns. “He doesn’t exactly-”

“Ah, stop,” Simmons interrupts, holding up one hand. “You’re doing it. Judging him by his cover. He’s a lot more than he looks.” When Wash’s frown just deepens, Simmons shrugs. “I’m not saying _don’t_ try. I’m just saying to be careful if you do.” He turns back to loading a crate full of ammo. “Besides, you of all people could use a chance to loosen up.”

That makes Wash snort. “This coming from you, ‘of all people’?”

“Just because I can’t take the advice doesn’t mean I can’t dish it out.”

“I…don’t see how that works,” Wash says, blinking owlishly.

“Just take it from someone who’s known Donut an uncomfortably long time, Wash; don’t try to stop him when he has his mind set on something. It won’t end well.”

Wash sighs heavily. “Fine. I guess this is happening, then.”

“I guess it is.” Simmons shares a commiserating look with him. “Oh, and make sure Tucker brings the booze.”

/

The problem, Simmons reflects, is that no one hangs out with him simply because they want to. There’s always a caveat of some kind. He’s the only other person at the meeting or in the mess hall, he’s sitting in the seat next to someone on the pelican, they’ve been assigned to a mission or patrol together, on and on and on. He’s tried convincing himself it’s because he’s always busy, but if he’s going to be truly honest, that’s intentional. He’s strategically taken on enough work that he has excuses to be up early for training, work all day and then go to bed early, all in an effort not to have any free time that he would find himself unable to fill with social activities.

Tonight, though, through some arcane method he doesn’t even want to think about, Donut has managed to coordinate a time when all the Reds and Blues and the large majority of their teams are off duty, and has convinced or cajoled or threatened them enough to make them turn up to his party. Even Wash is here, though Simmons suspects he was dragged by Tucker.

Donut has set up a very meagre bar in his room, and Simmons is currently engaging in an introvert’s favourite party pastime; standing awkwardly around the punch bowl. Well, knowing Donut it’s probably ten per cent fruit juice and ninety per cent the local vodka substitute, the stuff the cadets brew up in vats behind the barracks, but the thought counts.

Currently, Simmons is hiding from Donut. If Simmons is caught by Donut, he’ll be forced to go interact with Grif and Ed the Fed, which is apparently the point of this evening, and is also the last thing in the galaxy that Simmons wants to do. Hopefully, if Simmons avoids him long enough, Donut will get drunk and forget why he organised the party in the first place, and Simmons can wait for everything to die down enough that he can go back to his room and get some sleep-

“Simmons!”

Simmons jumps, mentally scrabbling for excuses in the split second it takes his brain to realize that the voice calling his name is not Donut.

It is, in fact…Sarge?

“Oh, hello sir,” Simmons says, blinking and trying to will away his sudden nervous adrenaline spike. “I, er, thought you weren’t coming tonight?”

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it,” Sarge says, his voice rather gruff, as he leans over to fill a cup with punch. “Emily convinced me.”

It takes Simmons a second to process that by Emily he means Doctor Grey. He’s…still not sure how he feels about those two, if he’s honest. “That’s nice, sir,” he says anyway.

Sarge grunts noncommittally, which is something he does a lot, and can mean any number of things. Mostly it’s just a more Sarge-ly way of saying ‘I guess’.

“Um…having…fun?” Simmons asks hesitantly.

“It’s acceptable.” Coming from Sarge, that’s quite high praise.

Sarge saves him from having to think of anything else to say by nodding and muttering, “See ya, Simmons,” before wandering off again. The up side of this is that Simmons is no longer in an awkward conversation with his commanding officer; the down side is that he is now, once again, alone.

Standing around here is getting him nowhere. He’s locked his room, so no one will be in there; it’ll just be a matter of _getting_ there around all people who’ve turned the corridor into a temporary dancefloor. And of course, getting there and getting inside without feeling like everyone’s judging him for being a loser will be another challenge.

But he can do it. Probably.

Unfortunately, the moment he walks out into the hall, his arm is snagged from behind and a familiar, dreaded voice coos right in his ear, “ _There_ you are!”

Simmons winces, then tries to smooth his face out into a smile. He almost manages it, he thinks. “Hey Donut,” he has to yell to be heard over the music.

Donut tugs on his arm insistently, mouthing, ‘Come on’, and Simmons lets himself be dragged. He’s lost his chance to escape; he may as well surrender to his fate.

Half the doors in the hall are closed, but the two second to last doors opposite each other at the balcony end are open; Caboose and Tucker’s rooms. Loud music is blaring out of Tucker’s door, that being where the sound system is set up, and a curious amount of yelling is coming from Caboose’s room. Donut leads him that way, threading through the dancing crowd with practised ease.

Inside is the typical sparse officer’s barracks set-up; one single bed, a footlocker, an armour stand, and a desk and chair. Someone has moved the desk away from the wall and placed it across the middle of the room, and an extra chair has been acquired from somewhere and placed opposite the existing one, one on each side of the table. Sitting in the chair facing them is a soldier Simmons doesn’t know, a kid who can’t be older than twenty but is built like a brick shithouse, all bulging biceps and big hands. He’s probably a Fed, judging by the fact that Ed and his little gang are all crowded behind him, looking eager, along with a characteristically nonchalant Grif and an uncharacteristically excited Bitters.

Sitting across from Muscle Head Fed is Andersmith, whose expression can only be described as resigned, and standing behind him is Caboose, looking as untroubled and content as usual. A few others who Simmons vaguely recognises as members of Caboose’s team are also gathered round behind their Captain and Lieutenant.

“What-” Simmons starts to ask, but at that moment Bitters tells the two seated men to get ready, and both bring up their opposite arms and lay their elbows on the table, hands ready to grasp. “Arm-wrestling?”

“Ooo, they’re both pretty ripped,” Donut says appreciatively, eyeing Muscle Head Fed’s arms. “Who do you think will win?”

Simmons can’t say much for the Fed, but he’s seen Andersmith lift enough weights to be pretty sure of his choice. “Smith, probably. He’s pretty jacked.”

“Alright, you know the rules,” Bitters says. He sounds eager and more than a little drunk. “Empty hands behind backs. No one else touches the competitors. No funny business of any kind. Ready?” When Andersmith and the Fed both nod, Bitters yells, “GO!”

The yelling begins immediately, both teams egging their respective competitor on. Donut drags Simmons forward eagerly, the little Blue Squad crowd parting to let them through until they’re standing by Caboose, who seems too intent on the arm wrestling match to notice them.

To the Fed’s credit, it’s a close match. They strain against each other for what seems like hours, advantage going back and forth, until Andersmith slowly starts to gain ground. The Fed struggles valiantly against him, but in the end the result is inevitable; Andersmith slams the Fed's arm down and Blue Squad erupts in cheers.

"That was a good call, Simmons," Donut grins. He's eyeing Bitters, who seems to be acting as bookie, settling various bets and overseeing the money changing hands. He looks rather morose about it, Simmons thinks. "You think you could call the next one too?" Donut asks, his mind clearly on making money.

Simmons shrugs. "Depends on the next match up."

The others are ribbing Bitters mercilessly - something about losing a bet - while the Fed guy shakes hands with Andersmith and gets up from the table. "No one's beaten him yet?" Donut asks Caboose, nodding toward Andersmith.

"Smith is stronger than five bears," Caboose says, which both Simmons and Donut are prepared to accept as an affirmative.

"We bet that Bitters couldn't find someone who could beat Andersmith," one member of Caboose's squad says - Simmons can't remember her name. "So far it looks like he's going to lose!"

"You're gonna lose Bitters!" another blue guy shouts, and the rest of the squad take up the call.

"Come on, Simmons," Donut says, taking his arm. "Let's go over and-"

Bitters’ yell is loud enough to cut Donut off. "In your dreams! I've already found our next challenger!"

"What?" one of Blue Squad asks. Simmons looks over at Bitters, only to find the Lieutenant staring right back at him.

No. Oh no.

Before he can move Bitters has rounded the table and grabbed the arm Donut isn't holding onto. "Yeah, Captain Simmons is gonna kick your ass, Smith," Bitters insists, tugging on him.

"Bitters, in what universe do you think  _Simmons_ is going to have a chance of beating  _Smith_ at arm wrestling?" Grif asks.

Simmons glares at him. Okay, it’s a valid point, but he doesn't need to  _say_ it.

"Er, in the universe where he has a robot arm that can punch through a steel sheet, Captain," Bitters retorts. Though not the most muscle-bound guy in the world, Bitters still has a few pounds on Simmons and is managing to drag him quite effectively round the table, despite Simmons’ reluctance.

"Bitters, that's a terrible idea," Simmons protests. "Smith could get hurt-"

"Yeah, and I could win fifty bucks," Bitters says. They're now on the other side of the table, and if Bitters wasn't shorter than him he'd probably have pushed Simmons down into the chair by his shoulders by now. As it is, he simply gestures at it. "Come on! It'll be fun!"

"Sure, Smith getting his hand broken will be great fun," Simmons says, folding his arms.

"What do you say, Smith?" Bitters demands, turning to him.

"I'm prepared," Smith says in his I'm-such-a-martyr voice. "I did say I'd take on any challenger."

"You won't be much use to the war effort with a broken hand," Simmons points out.

Smith leans back in his seat and folds his arms, and actually manages to look vaguely threatening. "Who says you'll break my hand?" he says, challenge in his voice, prompting a round of whoops and cheers from his teammates.

"That was kinda hot," Donut, who has followed Simmons around the table, says in an undertone. 

"Shut up, Donut," Simmons says, more on reflex than anything.

"Ok, if we win, I'll split the winnings with you, seventy thirty," Bitters offers.

"You're going to give me fifteen bucks to incapacitate Smith?" Simmons asks, raising an eyebrow. "He won't be able to shoot with broken fingers, y'know."

"Sixty forty then!" 

"So..twenty bucks."

"There's only so much money in the pot!" Bitters snaps, agitated. "Now are we doing this or not?"

"Go on, Simmons!" Donut encourages from behind him.

"Yeah, go on Simmons," Grif sniggers, in a much less encouraging tone - and Simmons makes his decision.

"Fine," he says, "Sixty forty,  _and_ if anything happens to Andersmith,  _you_ take the blame from Kimball."

Bitters grimaces, but he holds out a hand, and they shake on it. Then Simmons takes a seat and says, "Let's do this." A chorus of cheers follows this announcement, and for a moment Simmons feels warm inside.

Then Andersmith, grinning from ear to ear, rests his elbow on the table and opens his hand, and Simmons feels a rush of nerves.  _Can_ he beat Andersmith at arm wrestling? And can he do it _without_ breaking bones?

It's too late to back out now. Simmons lifts his left arm into the same position and grasps Andersmith's hand, metal against skin. The sensations he receives from his prosthetic aren't as nuanced as those from his flesh hand, but they're a lot better now that Grey replaced his old arm with one of her own design; he can just about feel the rough calluses on Andersmith's hand. His grip is very firm and strong - he obviously has reason to be confident. Simmons rolls his shoulder to clock his prosthetic up one strength rating, then nods when Bitters asks if they're ready.

"Alright," Bitters points one finger in Simmons' face, "Do not blow this for us, okay?"

Simmons bats his hand out of the way. “Get on with it, Bitters."

"Okay. On three; one, two...three!"

Andersmith's immediate strategy seems to be to hit hard and fast and take his opponent by surprise. Simmons digs his elbow into the table top and remains firm, trying to push against the palm of Andersmith's hand instead of instinctually gripping harder with his fingers. The threat of crushing Andersmith's hand isn't a negligible one; Simmons has very easily crushed bricks before with this prosthetic. It was on the highest strength rating then, but a human hand is a lot more fragile than a brick.

With his initial strategy foiled, Andersmith settles in, leaning into his push and digging in firmly with his elbow. Simmons tries to give as good as he gets, and their hands waver back and forth for about thirty seconds - but Andersmith is  _strong_ , a lot stronger than Simmons realized, and soon enough he's giving way and their hands are tipping over to his side.

"Come on Simmons!" he hears a few people shout, most obviously Donut from right behind him. He pushes back, managing to just about bring their hands back to the middle, but Andersmith is unrelenting as an avalanche; he keeps pushing and pushing, leaving them hovering in deadlock in just about the centre.

Gritting his teeth, Simmons throws himself into the effort, really digging his elbow into the table to try and get more leverage. Their hands teeter a short distance towards Andersmith's side; he grunts as he tries to stop the advance, fingers gripping tighter around Simmons' hand. If the prosthetic's sensors were more finely tuned he'd probably be feeling pain from how hard Andersmith is squeezing his hand, but Grey could only do so much with limited supplies, and the sensation is dulled to a faint tingle along with the sense of pressure. Simmons pushes harder; if he can just capitalize on this advantage, he doesn't have far to go-

Dimly he registers that Andersmith's face is now creased with pain, but the yelling around them is getting louder and he's still pushing back, so Simmons doesn't stop. Andersmith is giving more ground and he's  _so close_ now, if he just holds on a little longer and pushes a  _little harder_ -

The moment of truth happens very fast. One second they're struggling; the next there's a loud  _crack_ , Andersmith yells, and all the pressure pushing on Simmons' hand drops away. Both their hands slam down onto the table top, Andersmith hissing and Simmons letting out a squeak of surprise, while around them the crowd erupts into cheers and groans.

"We did it!" Bitters crows, "Pay up suckers!"

"Oh god oh god I broke it I broke your hand oh god I'm so sorry!" Simmons stutters, flapping his own hands around Andersmith's injured one. "Quick, someone get Doctor Grey, she's around somewhere-"

Simultaneously Andersmith is trying to take some of the blame on himself, because of course he is; something about how he knew the risks, he still took part, yadda yadda. Behind him Caboose is saying, "Yes, the strength of five bears is less than the strength of five  _robot_  bears," as if that fucking matters, while Blue Squad argue with Bitters about how his money is forfeit because he injured their player. The Feds behind him are all talking at once, loudly and all over each other until their words are indistinguishable. Donut is wailing something about - well, Simmons can't really tell what, only that he's distressed - and Grif is- is Grif laughing?

"Grif, stop laughing and go get Grey!" Simmons snaps loudly, because Grif is objectively the most likely to follow this instruction - which says something about the presently gathered company that Simmons doesn't want to think too hard about right now.

"Alright, calm down asshole," Grif says, and then moves into Simmons' field of view as he walks around the table, threading his way through the mass of people to get to the door. He disappears out into the thronging crowd in the hall, and Simmons turns his attention back to the situation at hand.

"Andersmith, sit down!" he says in the most commanding voice he can manage - which apparently works pretty well, judging by the way Andersmith instantly drops back into his seat.

Or maybe that's just Andersmith.

"Lay your hand on the table and keep it still," Simmons instructs, and Andersmith obediently puts his hand on the table in front of him without a hint of protest.

"Simmons, will Smith not be able to fight bears now?" Caboose says plaintively.

"When did Smith ever fight a bear?" Simmons asks, without really thinking about it; for some reason in the moment it seems like the most important thing to ask, though the minute the words are out of his mouth he wonders why the hell he said them, because indulging Caboose never leads anywhere good.

"Smith has fought three bears and wrestled five alligators and strangled a snake," Caboose says confidently.

Simmons has no idea what to make of that statement, other than it must be completely false; judging from Andersmith's bewildered expression, he also has no idea what Caboose is talking about.

Luckily, Donut comes to the rescue. "Caboose, remember how things that happened while we were asleep didn't actually happen in real life?" he asks gently.

For a moment, Caboose blinks at him, clearly befuddled; then his face clears and he nods. "Oh. Yes. That is dreaming." Then he looks crestfallen. "So Smith didn't really fight three bears and wrestle five alligators and strangle a snake?"

"I would fight a bear for you any time, sir!" Andersmith declares passionately.

Simmons fights the urge to plant his face into the table. "Jesus  _Christ_. Where the fuck is Doctor Grey?

As if summoned, Grey appears by the table, looking at the ginger way Andersmith holds his hand and tutting. "I just knew  _someone_ would be calling for the doctor by the end of this party," she says, her usual chipper voice taking on just a hint of exasperation. "Come on then Lieutenant Smith, let's get you to the infirmary!"

/

Simmons insists on going with them; partly because of the massive guilt he feels about stupidly breaking Andersmith's hand, partly because it's a good excuse to get away from the party, and partly because he's not sure anyone else was willing to accompany Andersmith and- well, he knows how it feels to be alone. Not cool, especially when you've landed yourself - or, in this case, been landed - in the hospital.

Andersmith, of course, defers Simmons' concern at every possible opportunity. They sit in the infirmary while Grey patches up Andersmith's hand, and start a constant cycle of Andersmith starting to apologize or take blame before Simmons sharply cuts him off - until Grey tells them to shut up and let her work, anyway.

Andersmith is, Simmons reflects, very easy to argue with. Mainly because he doesn't actually argue; he begins to suggest that he might be partly at fault, always in a reasonable and polite manner, and then shuts up as soon as Simmons tells him to.

That part is quite nice, actually.

"All done!" Grey sing-songs a little while later. "It's not too bad of a break, Lieutenant; if you keep that splint on and take those tablets, you should be healed up in two weeks or so. Please don't put any undue stress on the break until then."

"Yes, doctor. Thank you," Smith replies, and then Grey hustles them both out of the infirmary with strict instructions to get Andersmith back to his bunk and let him get some rest.

"No more partying for me then," Andersmith says as they cross the darkened base, heading for one of the three barracks buildings.

"Getting your hand broken wasn't enough of a party?" Simmons asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Well, it's not the way my nights usually end. I mean, on the rare occasion that we have social events," Smith says awkwardly.

Simmons winces internally. Damn, this was probably the first party Andersmith has attended in a year or more, and Simmons ruined it. "I'm really sorry," he says again, then when Andersmith opens his mouth to argue he continues, "Really, I just, I... let me take the blame here, okay? Any idiot should've realized arm wrestling with a metal hand was a bad idea."

"Any idiot including me," Andersmith says, and when Simmons begins to protest he adds, “And Bitters, by the way. He was the one who suggested the whole thing.”

“Well, blaming Bitters is territory I can handle,” Simmons jokes, and is gratified to see Andersmith grin.

This is kind of...nice, he thinks. He actually feels fairly comfortable in Andersmith's presence.

Then they're at the door of the barracks. "I suppose you'll go back to the party," Andersmith says, his hand on the door.

Simmons winces. "I mean, it's in my corridor. Can't exactly escape it."

"You, er, aren't a party person?" Andersmith asks, sounding hesitant. Perhaps he's nervous about inquiring about an officer's private life; he actually respects the codes of recommended conduct about that sort of thing.

"Not particularly," Simmons admits. Usually he would've deferred, pretended to enjoy parties on at least some level, but somehow he feels like Andersmith won't judge him for not being a wildly social extrovert.

 

"Well, I, er," Andersmith shifts on his feet, clearing his throat. He looks like he's psyching himself up to say something, and Simmons waits patiently for him; but then he loses his nerve. "I hope you have a good night anyway, sir," he says, the title bringing them back into the world of soldier and commanding officer, and Simmons nods, recognising Andersmith's attempt to put a bit of a barrier back up between them. He's comfortable having barriers; more comfortable than is healthy, maybe, but healthy human interaction has usually been the least of his worries.

"Goodnight, Andersmith," he says, and the lieutenant smiles once before he disappears inside the barracks.

The night air of Chorus is cool and ever so slightly damp, as if rain has just fallen. Simmons takes in a deep breath of it, savouring it, the freshness and newness of it. The reminder that some things on this planet are still beautiful.

Out here right now, walking under the stars in the dark compound, Simmons is alone, but for once he doesn't feel lonely.

He gets back to the Reds and Blues' corridor to find that the music has stopped, Kimball and Doyle have arrived and the former is yelling at Donut and Tucker while everyone else hangs around guiltily or tries to slink off unnoticed. Simmons would really like to get to his room and slip inside without attracting anyone's attention, but predictably half the crowd is gathered just outside his door - and, even worse, it's in Kimball's direct line of vision. He may not have had anything to do with organising the party, but he'd probably get blamed by association anyway; Kimball sometimes thinks of the Reds and Blues as a unit more than individual people.

He spots Jensen, Volleyball and some of the other girls from his squad hanging around near the edge of the crowd, and hesitates a few moments before going over to them. Even if they just stand in awkward silence next to each other, it will look better than him loitering alone, and they'll be able to tell him what happened.

"Hi, Captain!" Yasmin, one of his squad, says cheerfully when he appears next to them. Yasmin is usually full of energy and ready for a fight, and the large amount of alcohol she has obviously imbibed hasn’t done anything to dull her spirits. "Looks like the party's over, I'm afraid."

"Yeah." Simmons clears his throat. "Er, what happened?"

"People on the other floors were complaining about the noise," Volleyball says, pouting. "Then Kimball appeared and started yelling. Y'know, the usual." She staggers a little as Jensen leans on her harder. Simmons' lieutenant looks to have consumed a little too much of the moonshine for her own good; she's almost asleep on her feet, her eyelids fluttering. "Katie had a good time though, obviously," Volleyball adds with a grin.

"Obviously." Simmons eyes Jensen as she starts to mutter something under her breath, too quiet to hear over the background noise. "Is she okay?"

"She'll be fine. She just needs to sleep it off." Volleyball hitches Jensen a little higher under her arm, looking remarkably unconcerned.

"Katie's a bit of a lightweight," Yasmin giggles, leaning in like she's sharing a secret.

"Well, she's, um, not very big," Simmons says, which is apparently the smartest reply he can think of.

The girls look at him askance. Another of them, Deborah, tilts her head and asks, "What?"

"It's, er, y'know, the larger your body is the more blood you have for the alcohol to diffuse into..." Simmons trails off as he's met with blank stares. "Guys, this is like, freshman year stuff." Even as he's saying it, a horrible thought hits him. "Wait, did you guys miss freshman year?"

The girls look at each other. "I did  _most_ of it," Yasmin says, looking doubtful.

 _Jesus_. Just when he thinks he's forgotten quite how bad the situation is on Chorus, the horror of it sneaks back up and slaps him in the face with something else he never even thought to consider. These kids didn't even get to graduate high school before their lives were overtaken by war.

"You must've finished high school, right, sir?" Deborah asks. "Did you go to college?" She sounds so enthusiastic about the prospect of it, it hurts Simmons' heart.

"Yeah, for a little while. Then I…dropped out. To join the army," Simmons says, surprising even himself with the admission. He doesn’t usually talk about that period of his life. To say it was a low point would be a huge understatement.

The girls all look at him quizzically. “You didn’t like college?” Yasmin asks.

“It was fine. I probably could’ve stuck it out.” That much is true at least. “It was just…” _It was the best opportunity to get away from my family that I’d ever had_. But that hurt was too private, too personal; there was no way he could even begin to voice it. He cast about for some other excuse. “The war was getting really bad, just then. You started to wonder why you bothered to spend time in class when aliens were about to come kill us all. Lots of us were dropping out to enlist.” That much _had_ been true, though it hadn’t been his primary motivation. The army had been an escape route, and a pretty shitty one at that.

The girls are all nodding now. “Sounds like us,” Deborah says, and it’s only then that Simmons realizes how similar it _does_ sound.

God, now he feels like a fraud.

“What did you study?” Volleyball asks.

He can hardly remember the name of the course. “It was, er…business management, something like that.”

All the girls look perplexed. “That doesn’t sound like something you’d be interested in,” Yasmin says, as confidently as if she’s known him for years.

“My dad picked the course for me,” Simmons says, before he even thinks about what he’s saying. Then he winces internally. God, where did _that_ come from? Not even Grif knows about that. He _must_ be drunk if he’s just blabbing stuff like this out without thinking. Now he  _really_ wants to go to bed, almost enough to brave the crowd and the still-yelling Kimball.

“That sucks,” Yasmin says vehemently. The others all seem to agree, judging by their expressions.

“It was just…the way he was,” Simmons says, eager to close down this particular line of discussion.

Chang, a girl who has been quiet up to this point, suddenly says, “My dad said he was going to send me off world for university.” She sounds rather morose about it. “He wanted me to go to a famous music school on Demeter.”

Eager for a distraction, Simmons asks, “What did you play?”

Chang blinks a little. “Violin.”

“Oh, so did I,” Simmons says, again without thinking, then remembers as all the girls’ eyes turn to him that he was supposed to be turning the conversation _away_ from himself.

“For how long?” Volleyball asks.

Yasmin adds, “Were you any good?”

He had, objectively, been good. He just hadn’t loved it, had lacked the passion to keep going with it while his life got more and more busy. Eventually it had dropped by the wayside, as had so many things, in the face of exam revision and preparation for college. “I was okay, I guess,” he says, noncommittal. All this dredging through the past is making him think about things he’d rather leave safely boxed up and mostly forgotten in the back of his mind; he can feel a headache coming on.

"Do you still play?" Volleyball asks.

"I haven't even seen a violin since I joined the army," Simmons says, trying not to sound short. He succeeds, because the girls don't look offended - that or they don't notice. 

“How long ago _was_ that, sir?” Yasmin asks. “Like, how old are you?”

The other girls hiss reprisals at her, but Simmons just laughs. “What’s the date today? The thirteenth?”

“The twelfth,” Yasmin says, “For another half hour, at least.”

“Then I’ll be thirty in two months and half an hour,” Simmons says with a grin.

Yasmin wrinkles her nose. “Wow. Old.”

The hysteria this comment evokes finally draws Kimball’s attention to them; surprisingly, distraction seems to derail her somewhat, and soon enough they’re all released and allowed to slink off back to their beds.

Donut, predictably, corners Simmons before he can make it through the throngs of people back to his room. “Tonight didn’t pan out at all like I hoped, Simmons,” he says, his tone reproving, as if it’s _Simmons’_ fault that Ed the Fed is a nightmare to hang out with.

Well. Maybe it’s a little his fault; he’s not exactly been open to making friends. But still.

“Really?” Simmons says innocently, “Everyone seemed to enjoy the party.”

Donut glowers at him. “Not what I meant. You didn’t exchange one word with Ed.”

“I didn’t exactly get much of a chance.”

“And whose fault was that, pray tell?” Donut crosses his arms.

“Well, y’know…there were a lot of people around,” Simmons says lamely.

Donut rolls his eyes. “Honestly, you’re hopeless. Completely. Hopeless.”

“You had fun, didn’t you?” Simmons asks defensively.

“Well, yes, but that wasn’t the _point-_ ”

“The point of the party wasn’t to have fun?” Simmons knows his tone is snotty, but it just slips out.

Donut huffs. “I am _trying_ to _help_ you, Simmons. And you’re not exactly making it easy.”

“When do I ever?” Simmons yawns widely. “I’m going to bed, Donut. It’s been a long evening.”

“In which my purpose wasn’t achieved at _all_ ,” Donut grouses, but he doesn’t stop Simmons from leaving.

Inside his room, Simmons flops heavily onto his bed and covers his eyes with one arm. _God_ , what even is his life right now?

He shudders. Best to go to sleep quickly and not think about that one.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaannd the second chapter posts on time! This is some sort of record for me :D 
> 
> The amazing Pitchscribbles has created more artwork for this chapter, which can be found [ here.](http://pitchscribbles.tumblr.com/post/157996432336/chapter-2-of-on-the-right-side-of-rock-bottom) Go shower them with praise!!!

The next day around noon, Kimball appears in the armoury. She stands in front of Simmons with her arms folded and says, in her usual long-suffering tone, “Captain, do you know how to drive?”

“Er...yes?” Simmons hasn’t driven in a while, true - Grif insists he’s always the driver, and Simmons doesn’t really care - but he’s passed his test.

“Good.” Kimball taps her fingers against her elbow, the armour hitting armour making a light clacking sound. “We have a problem, and it’s something I need you to fix.”

Now that instruction, Simmons can handle. “Of course, General.”

“It’s Jensen,” Kimball says with a sigh, and suddenly the question about driving doesn’t seem so random as Simmons connects the dots.

“Oh no. She had another accident? Was it serious?”

“She’s fine. The two soldiers she hit both have broken bones, though, and the property damage…” Kimball shakes her head. “Either she learns to drive _properly_ , or she stops driving altogether. Do you think you can handle teaching her?”

Grif would technically be a better choice for this job, but Simmons can’t imagine he’d be interested. “It won’t be a problem, General.”

The corner of Kimball’s mouth curls a little in a half-smile. “That’s what I like to hear.”

Jensen appears at the armoury a half hour later, slightly out of breath. “I’m sorry I’m late, Captain!” she says, performing a slightly sloppy salute. “I had to run to get here from the training room and-”

“It’s fine, Jensen,” Simmons says. “It’s two minutes, it’s no big deal.”

“So, what can I help you with, Captain?”

Simmons takes a deep breath. “It’s about your driving, Jensen.”

Instantly Jensen’s shoulders droop. “I... I know that last crash was bad, sir, but I can get better, I promise!”

“I hope so. You, er…. you kinda suck right now.” Seeing Jensen’s whole body slump a little, Simmons hurriedly says, “But Kimball’s asked me to train you, er, try and make you better at it, y’know - she basically made it sound like you had to learn or she’d ban you from driving, so…”

“Lessons?” Jensen actually sounds eager. “Does this mean I can finally get my full licence?”

“You haven’t got your full licence,” Simmons says flatly. It’s barely a question; he’s fairly sure he saw that one coming, if unconsciously.

“Oh, yeah, the test center...kind of blew up? In the bomb protests or the suppression campaigns or something, I can’t remember. We kept asking them to open a new one but they never did.”

“Right.” Simmons sighs heavily. “I don’t know about the licence, I’ll talk to Kimball. In the meantime, er, go round up a vehicle for us. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Right away, sir!” Jensen gives a much more enthusiastic salute and beetles off in the direction of the motor pool.

Simmons pulls on his helmet and navigates into the base’s library of downloadable files, looking for anything on driving instruction. He finds the manual for a standard warthog, which has fairly detailed guidelines; Simmons spends about fifteen minutes reviewing them before heading to the motor pool. Considering how busy things get down there, it’s probably taken Jensen all this time to get her hands on a warthog.

When he arrives, he finds Jensen near the entrance, standing by the driver’s door of a warthog, talking to the other squad lieutenants. She waves when Simmons appears. “Captain! Er, we were wondering…”

“Can you teach me to drive too?” Palomo asks, squeaky and all in a rush.

Simmons blinks. “What?”

Palomo twists his fingers nervously in front of him. “It’s just that...I’m _okay_ at driving but-”

“You fucking suck, Palomo. Like, worse than Jensen,” Bitters says, rolling his eyes.

“I’m not that bad!”

“Hey!” Jensen protests, slapping Palomo on the arm.

“I didn’t mean-”

“Okay, okay,” Simmons interrupts, raising his hands in a time out gesture. “Sure, whatever, you come along too Palomo. We can spend the afternoon doing it, I guess.” He eyes Bitters and Andersmith. “...you guys can both drive, right?”

Bitters scoffs. “Duh.”

“He drives way too fast, and Andersmith drives way too slow. Like a grandma,” Palomo says.

“Maybe we should take them both along and teach you _all_ how to drive,” Simmons jokes.

“No way.” Bitters folds his arms. “There’s no way I’m being dragged along on this.”

“Come oooooon, Bitters,” Palomo whines, “It’ll be fun!”

Three minutes later their warthog pulls out of the motor pool without Bitters, despite Palomo’s best efforts to convince him. Andersmith has gamely hopped in the back, though, and at his own insistence, Simmons is in the driving seat.

He’d had a moment of panic when he started the engine, wondering if he actually _did_ remember how to drive – it’s been _ages_ since he last got behind the wheel – but within a few minutes he finds himself breathing easier, accelerating and changing gears confidently. Grif hadn’t done _all_ the driving over the last ten years, after all.

He takes them out of the ragtag military base and into the city proper, gunning it a little down the empty streets to make Jensen and Palomo laugh. Eventually they come to a wide-open stretch of flat tarmac - formerly a huge car park, Simmons suspects - and here they stop.

“Right,” he says, cutting the engine. “Who’s first?”

Jensen volunteers. They all sit rather uneasily in the warthog as Simmons runs Jensen through the basics of driving it, making sure she actually knows them all. She has problems with most things, though the clutch and brake application seem to be the major bugbears. They zoom around the lot for the best part of an hour, repeatedly getting thrown forward in their seats whenever Simmons instructs Jensen to stop the vehicle.

After perhaps the fiftieth stop - which is a _little_ less abrupt than before, so Jensen is apparently getting somewhere - Simmons tells her to stop the engine and let Palomo have a go.

Palomo’s problem is that he can’t work the clutch. Like, at all. Simmons loses count of the number of times the warthog stalls; at one point they all have to get out and have a break while Jensen fixes it, the repeated clutch failures taking their toll.

But this was, once upon a time, Simmons’ biggest failing while he was learning, so he’s determined to help the kid out.

“When did you learn to drive, Captain?” Andersmith asks, as they all stand around and watch Jensen, who’s elbow-deep in the warthog’s engine.

“Back in Basic,” Simmons says. “I was shit at first. Same clutch problems as Palomo. Then when I actually managed to make it go, for ages I was too scared to go faster than granny speed. I couldn’t bear the thought of crashing and having the CO yell at me.” He shrugs. “Actually, I still don’t usually drive very fast. That’s why Grif drives most of the time. Well, that and I’m better with the chain gun.”

“No one’s ever let me use the gun before,” Palomo says, looking up at it with what Simmons suspects might be longing.

“That’s because you’re such a poor shot,” Jensen mutters, head halfway in the engine, and Palomo’s shoulders droop.

“To be honest, that thing doesn’t need much of an aim,” Simmons says, “If you point it in the general area of the target and pull the trigger, that usually does the job.”

“Can I try it?” Palomo says eagerly, almost bouncing on his feet.

“It’s too heavy to move when the car isn’t powered,” Andersmith tells him.

“Maybe later,” Simmons says. “How’s it looking now, Jensen?”

They spend a little more time practising – they set up rubble in a kind of assault course, through which they learn that Jensen’s _real_ problem is a severe lack of attention and spatial awareness – until the sun is getting low in the sky, and Simmons decides to call it a day. “Alright,” he says, “Before we go, why don’t you try out the gun, Palomo?”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Andersmith asks in an undertone as Palomo whoops and jumps up to the turret.

“It’s not like he’ll do much damage if he just aims at that empty building over there,” Simmons shrugs. He gets out of the passenger’s side and hops up on the back with Palomo, showing him how the gun works. He tells him where to aim - an old building that looks like it was once a shopping mall, directly behind the warthog - and then steps down to let him do his thing.

Palomo carefully takes aim, then lets the building have it. The chain gun spits out bullets in its usual hailstorm, making Palomo’s arms judder and shake, but he manages to hold on quite admirably. After a couple of seconds, he releases the trigger and the gun shudders to a stop.

“Wow,” Palomo says into the sudden silence. “That thing kicks like a horse.”

“Told you so.” Simmons motions to the back of the warthog. “Now, come on, get in. We’ve got to get back.”

When they roll back into the motor pool, they find Kimball waiting for them. “So, practise went well?”

“We still _suck_ ,” Jensen and Palomo groan in unison.

“You’ve only had one lesson,” Simmons says. “And you were getting better. Slowly.”

They both mutter a very dejected ‘thanks, captain’, and shuffle off when Kimball waves for them to go. Andersmith is fiddling with something on the back of warthog, so they’re mostly alone as Kimball tilts her head and asks, “ _Was_ there any improvement?”

“Yeah. I mean, a little bit. A... very small amount.”

Kimball sighs, but all she says is, “Thank you, Captain. Dismissed,” before walking off.

The moment she leaves, Andersmith appears from behind the warthog. He’s taken his helmet off, running his fingers through dark sweaty hair as he comes to a stop. “So. Um,” is all he says.

“Thanks for coming along, Andersmith,” Simmons says, both with genuine sincerity and as a way to fill the silence. “Sorry we didn’t get a chance to give you a lesson.”

“I’m already pretty good at driving. Despite what they said,” Andersmith says. “I mean, I don’t drive fast. But I drive.”

“Slow is better than dead.”

“Agreed.” Andersmith pauses for a moment, looking hesitant. “It was… a surprisingly relaxing afternoon.”

“Yeah.” Simmons reaches up and pulls his helmet off, savouring the cool breeze on his hot skin, breathing in the tang of petrol and oil and the faint scent of earth that’s always on the wind. “I suppose any afternoon of not getting shot at or practising to get shot at is relaxing at this point.”

Andersmith laughs a little. Simmons sort of wonders why he’s still hanging around - doesn’t he have something better to be doing? It’s kind of nice to stay and chat, but he wishes it felt less like charity.

Andersmith opens his mouth to say something else, but is interrupted by a loud shout of “SIMMONS!” coming from across the lot.

Simmons sighs and rolls his eyes, and turns to see Donut striding toward him with a determined expression on his face. “What, Donut?” he asks when Donut gets in normal speaking range.

“I need to borrow you,” Donut announces, latching onto his arm. “Sorry to steal him, Andersmith.” Without waiting for the lieutenant to reply, Donut drags him away in the direction of the barracks.

“What’s happening now?” Simmons asks, trying his best to sound long-suffering and done with the world. He doesn’t have to try hard.

“I’m organising a sleepover,” Donut says, like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“Wha- why?”

“For bonding purposes, Simmons.”

Simmons can guess _exactly_ what this is about. He digs his heels in, dragging Donut to a stop. “I am _not_ participating in a _sleepover_ with Ed the Fed.”

Donut pouts at him. “But Simmons-”

“There are some bridges too far, Donut. Too. Far.”

“We could at least invite them over for a drink?” Donut says hopefully.

That’s probably the most concession he’s going to get, so Simmons reluctantly says, “Sure, why not,” and lets Donut take hold of his arm again.

Donut drags him back to his room to change out of his armour. Before he takes his helmet off, Simmons fires off a quick message to Grif; _It was all Donut’s idea, I swear._

Grif doesn’t answer, which is kind of weird. _Probably spending yet more time with Ed the stupid Fed_ , Simmons thinks viciously as he stows the helmet away.

Donut looks distracted when he answers the door, but perks up instantly when he sees Simmons. “Ooo, come in come in.”

Donut’s room is standard, like all of theirs, though the desk is set up more like a dressing table with bottles of product arranged in neat order, and the scent of lavender hangs in the air. “I’ve sent Grif a message,” Donut says, “He didn’t reply though. Usually he’s quite prompt when it comes to drinking.”

“Usually,” Simmons agrees drily, sitting down on Donut’s bed.

They sit together and chat for a bit; or rather, Donut keeps up a running monologue of all the gossip he’s heard in the last week, and Simmons makes appropriate comments at appropriate intervals.

Donut just about seems to have run out of things to say when his helmet beeps. “That should be Grif,” he says, sliding it on. He pulls it off again after a moment, expression disappointed. “He said, ‘Not tonight, thanks’. I wonder what’s going on?”

It is fairly unusual for Grif to pass up a night of drinking; but then, he’s been acting unusual for the past week. He’s been spending so much time with the Feds that Simmons has hardly seen him. “Maybe he’s already doing something,” Simmons says, shrugging.

Donut is still frowning. “Then why didn’t he say?”

“He’s been acting weird, Donut. I’m sure he’s just…” Simmons isn’t actually sure _what_ Grif is, or what’s up with him, but he manages, “He’s probably just tired,” and stands up. “I’d better get to bed, anyway.”

Donut mumbles something in return as Simmons leaves the room, but he still looks troubled.

Simmons finds he feels only a bitter sort of resentment. Let Grif be weird and stand-offish; that’s his problem. When he gets his head out of his ass, he can come apologize, and _then_ Simmons will hang out with him again.

_And then everything will be back to normal_.

/

The next morning at breakfast, Simmons is alone as he goes up to the window. None of Red Team are in sight – not unusual for Grif, given the hour, but Donut is usually up by this time.

 He sits down at a table across from Wash and Tucker, the only other members of the Red or Blue teams in the hall. Wash is engrossed in something on his datapad, enough that he barely grunts when Simmons sits down, but Tucker looks up and says, “Hey,” in a slightly distracted manner.

“Hey. Have you seen Donut?”

“Not since last night.” Tucker tilts his head. “Why?”

“Nothing. He’s usually here by now, that’s all.”

“God, what would a lie-in be like, huh?” Tucker says dramatically, leaning back in his chair and giving an exaggerated sigh. Simmons can see him glancing at Wash out of the corner of his eye.

Wash only raises an eyebrow in response.

“You sign away your right to lie-ins on the enlistment sheet,” Simmons mutters, starting in on his cereal.

“Whatever Simmons, we all know you’re a morning person. You can’t pretend.” Tucker taps the edge of his spoon on the table top a couple of times before suddenly coming out with, “So, how do you like Ed?”

Simmons stops eating and looks up at him, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. Tucker’s expression is totally guileless, but it’s too pointed a topic for him to have just brought up casually. _He’s been talking to Donut_. “Fine,” Simmons says carefully. “He’s…a nice guy.”

He and Tucker stare each other down for a few seconds before Tucker breaks and scoffs loudly. “Come on! That’s what Donut told me you said to him! And you totally don’t believe it!”

Wash looks up with a frown. “But Ed _is_ a nice guy,” he says, sounding somewhere between confused and offended.

“Wash, Ed’s personality is like, completely irrelevant in this sad debacle,” Tucker says. “What matters is that Ed is breaking up the holy matrimony of Grif and Simmons, and that means Simmons is like, contractually obliged to hate him.”

“I _don’t_ hate him,” Simmons protests.

“No, but you don’t _like_ him either,” Tucker shoots back.

“Do _you_ like him?” Simmons asks.

Tucker shrugs. “I dunno. He’s okay, I guess. That’s not the point, though, is it?”

“So, if I have this right,” Wash interjects, “Simmons doesn’t like Grif’s new boyfriend because he’s jealous?”

“Exactly,” Tucker says.

“I’m not _jealous_ ,” Simmons protests, even though that is kind of accurate. “I just… Grif spends a lot of time with him,” he finishes lamely.

Tucker looks at Wash with raised eyebrows. “See. Jealous.”

Before Simmons can fire back with anything, Donut sits down next to him in a flustered huff. “You’ll never _believe_ what’s happened,” he says loudly.

“Someone stole your straighteners?” Simmons says rather sourly.

Donut goes on as if Simmons hadn’t spoken. “The reason Grif didn’t want to come over last night is because he got into a huge fight with Ed!”

“Oh.” Simmons doesn’t quite know how to feel about that.

Tucker points accusingly at his face. “See? You’re not even sympathetic. If Ed and Grif break up he’ll come back to you and no one will threaten your weird little romance ever again.”

“Simmons!” Donut gasps, as if Tucker has just spoken unassailable truth.

Simmons bats Tucker’s finger away. “Don’t be swayed by these Blue Team lies, Donut. Tucker’s just talking out of his ass as usual.”

Tucker gives him the finger, but Donut’s still frowning.

“What did they argue about?” Wash asks.

“Grif’s commitment issues,” Donut says, “I think Ed’s getting a bit too serious for him.”

“They’ve only been together like, two weeks,” Simmons says.

“Maybe Ed’s a wartime marriage kinda guy,” Tucker suggests.

Simmons snorts. “Picked the wrong partner then, didn’t he?”

“That’s something _you’d_ know about, huh Simmons?” Tucker asks, leaning forward.

“Shut up, Tucker.”

“Yes, Tucker, this is important,” Donut unexpectedly agrees, “What are we going to do about Grif and Ed?”

“Let them work it out,” Tucker says, leaning back nonchalantly in his seat. “Or not. Whatever.”

“But-”

“Grif can look after himself, Donut, don’t worry about it,” Tucker says.

“It isn’t really any of our business,” Wash agrees offhandedly; he’s gone back to reading on his datapad.

Donut sighs unhappily. “Fine. _Fine_. I guess we just leave them to it.”

“I guess,” Tucker shrugs.

Simmons nods agreement and keeps eating his cereal.

/

When Simmons arrives at the armoury Jensen is already there, chattering to one of the other girls from the squad. How she gets showered and back in armour so quickly after training is something Simmons has never been able to work out. “You’re not in the, er, motor pool, Jensen?” he asks.

They both make casual salutes before Jensen says, “Just here for a minute, sir. Kimball asked me to ask you if it would be alright if Andersmith came and worked here with you for a while.”

“Andersmith?” Simmons asks. “Isn’t he normally on perimeter duty?”

“Sure, but now his hand’s busted-” Jensen breaks off awkwardly. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, she says, “Well, Kimball said he’s good at math?”

Simmons sighs. He has a feeling breaking Andersmith’s hand is going to cause him a world of unforeseen trouble. “It’s no problem. He can help me lift the heavy boxes. Where is he, anyway?”

“In the back I think, Captain.”

Jensen stops talking and stands loosely at attention, and it takes a minute for Simmons to realize she’s waiting for him to dismiss her. “You can go back to the motor pool now, Jensen.” He glances at the other soldier. “Padua?”

“Just came to fill a requisition order for the outer wall chain guns, sir,” she says, giving him another salute.

_Back to the daily grind._ “Wait here,” Simmons instructs, and then goes inside the armoury, on the hunt for Andersmith.

He’s not exactly hard to find. He looks a little lost, alone among the endless stacks of boxes, his helmet off and not visible anywhere nearby. “Oh, Captain,” he says as soon as he spots Simmons, snapping off a perfect salute. “Perhaps Lieutenant Jensen informed you-”

“Yeah, you’re here for a while, no problem,” Simmons says, eager not to mention the _reason_ for Andersmith’s arrival. “Can you help me carry out some boxes of ammo?”

Simmons drags the hover-lifter over and shows Andersmith how to use it, and they set to their task. Andersmith carries the boxes out and Simmons fills in the paperwork, which cuts the time the job would usually take in half - and then Andersmith finds a crate trolley and loads it up as Simmons gets Padua to sign off on the forms. “Take this one with you and make sure your CO signs it, this one I keep on Kimball’s pile, this one _I_ sign…” Simmons puts his signature to it with a flourish. “There, alright Padua, you’re good to go.” He eyes the trolley Andersmith has loaded up. “Will you be alright with that?”

“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!” Padua executes another salute - a little bit more precise this time - and then starts dragging the trolley away with what Simmons deems an acceptable amount of effort. He watches her until she turns the corner.

“Will she really be alright getting that back to the wall by herself?” Andersmith asks, echoing Simmons’ thought.

“She’ll find someone to help her if she needs it,” Simmons says, trying not to sound indifferent. It is the truth, after all. He glances around, notes the empty corridor ahead of them, and tells Andersmith, “Stay out here and watch the counter. Call me if anyone comes, I guess.”

“Yes, sir!” Andersmith says enthusiastically, saluting again. It might take Simmons a while to get used to that.

_To someone actually being a_ good _soldier_ , he thinks somewhat bitterly as he makes his way back into the armoury.

There’s not that much to do. He makes relatively short work of the daily inventory, helps a few privates requisition their rifles, greets Sarge when he arrives to work on ‘robotics research’ in the back room, then spends half an hour searching the messy room with him for a particular size of spanner.

_If Sarge would_ only _let me clean up in here, I could_ organise _the spanners so they all had separate places in the drawer_ , Simmons thinks to himself as he crawls about on hands and knees under the large work bench. He has to shove various boxes and crates and assorted junk out of the way, and the floor- he can’t think about the floor without wanting to bolt, so best not too. _And I could sort out the hammers and screwdrivers too-_

Three things happen almost simultaneously. One; Donut’s voice suddenly and from not very far away squawks, “Heeey, Sarge!” Two; Simmons starts upward and cracks his head so hard on the bottom of the work bench he sees stars. And three; Sarge announces in a very satisfied manner, “Ah ha! Found my spanner! It was here by the coffee pot all along!”

Some days, Simmons muses, rubbing his throbbing head, are not worth getting out of bed for.

“Have you seen Simmons?” Donut asks, this question presumably directed at Sarge.

“Simmons!” Sarge yells about half a second later. “Front and center, on the double!”

“Yes, sir,” Simmons grinds out, extricating himself from underneath the workbench.

He catches Donut making a face as he stands. “What were you doing down _there_ , Simmons?”

“Looking for the spanner,” Simmons says through gritted teeth.

Sarge grins. “That’s dedication for you right there, Private!” he says with great enthusiasm, which makes Simmons feel better.  

Donut leans over to peer under the bench. “It’s kinda…. gross…. down there,” he says, his face a moue of distaste.

“I know.” Simmons folds his arms. “Did you need something, Donut?”

Donut nods. “Yes. Definitely. We need to talk.”

“I’m working, Donut-”

“It’s _important_.”

Simmons can tell by the determined set of Donut’s mouth that he’s not going to get away with saying no.

“Fine,” he sighs. “You need anything else, sir?”

Sarge grunts distractedly, already getting to work with his newly repatriated spanner, so Simmons figures they can leave him to it.

Out in the armoury’s main room, there’s no one around but Lopez, who moves along the rows of boxes and racks of weaponry with quiet, mechanical precision. It would be kind of creepy if Simmons hadn’t had years to get used to it. Ignoring him, Simmons turns to Donut and folds his arms. “What is it?”

Donut leans in conspiratorially and whispers, “I think Grif’s avoiding you.”

Despite knowing it’s almost certainly true, having it said aloud stings, which is probably why Simmons’ voice is so caustic when he answers, “When did you work that one out, genius?”

Donut actually scowls at him. “ _Sorry_ , Simmons. You’re not usually that quick on the uptake, y’know, _emotionally_.”

Ouch. Simmons gives him a glare. “It’s not like it isn’t obvious.” He resists the urge to kick at a crate or something equally as childish. “So he’s avoiding me. Fuck him. Whatever it is, it’s his problem.”

There’s a moment of silence before Donut says, “Are you...sure?”

“We didn’t argue about anything, so I’m pretty fucking sure.” Simmons turns away, hunching his shoulders. “He just suddenly stopped…talking to me.”

He hears Donut take a step forward. “You’re sure _nothing_ happened?”

Mentally, Simmons rewinds the past two weeks. Grif has been distant for about that long, at least. But when _had_ he suddenly started getting weird? They’d gone out on a patrol almost three weeks ago and everything had been normal, then they’d spent the week working in the armoury-

“Wait,” Simmons says, “I remember. It all started when Ed showed up.”

“Are you sure?” Donut sounds surprised.

“Yeah, pretty damn sure.” Simmons can remember the day with almost perfect clarity. Ed had stuck out in his medical purple; not that medics didn’t have weapons, but Simmons usually sent their requisitions through Doctor Grey when he organised her medical supplies. Ed had been an oddity, turning up and asking to fill requisition orders. Even odder had been when he specifically asked after Grif - who had, for once, been in the back room. Who had, Simmons remembers now, come out and greeted Ed as if they’d already met.

“It’s like I thought, then,” Donut says.

Simmons turns back to face him. “What is?”

“Grif got all caught up in his romance and got swept away, y’know.” Donut nods knowingly. “It’s all a temporary thing. Soon enough things will go back to normal; just, with an added extra person.”

Simmons frowns. “Doesn’t really sound like Grif, honestly. He’s not exactly the romantic type.”

“Maybe not on the _surface_ , Simmons. But underneath, who knows?”

Simmons raises an eyebrow. “Have you met Grif? I don’t think he has a romantic bone in his body.”

“Have you ever _seen_ him in love?” Donut counters.

_No. That’s part of the problem._ Simmons pushes that thought away viciously. “He’s not _in love_ , Donut, he’s having some fling. You already said this morning that it’s getting too serious for him - implying that he’s not _looking_ for anything serious.”

Donut sighs. “I’m just trying to help.”

“Yeah, well,” Simmons turns away again and flicks an errant beetle off one of the crates, “Just let him do his own shitty thing, Donut. He’ll only have himself to blame at the end of it.”

He can feel Donut staring a hole in the back of his head, but he refuses to acknowledge it, or how bitter he suddenly sounds. Instead he leaves the back room and goes out to the front, where Andersmith is waiting.

“You can sit down or lean on the desk or something if you want, y’know,” he says.

Andersmith stands, not exactly at attention, but not exactly casual either. “I’m fine, Captain.”

“Suit yourself.” Simmons leans against the desk himself, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the metal, trying to get Donut’s words out of his head.

_Have you ever seen him in love?_

Simmons suppresses a snort. He’s not _in love_. There’s no way.

He’s not. He can’t be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for what will hopefully be the final instalment next week!

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Rock Bottom_ by Hailee Steinfeld, description quote from _Superstar_ by Broods.


End file.
